Divided (Mystrade)
by The Flying Ostrich
Summary: For over 30 years, Lestrade and Mycroft were best friends. They promised that they would never leave each other's side. But of course, promises break. Lestrade and Mycroft haven't seen each other in 5 years, and it seems like they will never be friends again (or confess their true feelings for each other) What happens when Myc finally finds himself on a plane back to London?
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter One—_

The rain poured down onto the roof shillings as a certain Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade gazed out the lofty windows of his apartment building. The silence was deafening and he again questioned whether he should get a dog to alleviate the solitude of single life. And again he told himself that his hours were too long, his schedule too busy, his life too hectic….

But those were all excuses. The truth of the matter was that Detective Inspector Lestrade was scared. He was scared of commitment. But most of all, he was scared of loss. The last time he had committed was the last time he had lost. He was scared of loving _anyone,_ albeit people, friends, animals….

He had been married for twenty five years. Twenty five years of joyful bliss… until the day he came home early and heard moans escaping from his bedroom. He was livid when he found his wife and her boss in there…. But more than that, he was hurt. Had that entire quarter of a century been a lie?

That was when Detective Inspector Lestrade built a wall around himself. He swore to himself from that moment forward that never again would he commit. Again and again and again in life he had been the only one to keep commitments. He was tired of promises breaking around him. He had trusted people too much. Again and again they had let him down.

Lestrade strolled towards his bookshelf, removing one of the many books. The cover was dusty, and the Inspector smiled sadly as he wiped the debris from the casing.

Oh, that man had been a god. He'd been the one to give Greg the book, actually, which was why the book had never been removed from the shelf until now. Too many painful memories, too many unfinished dreams…

Lestrade had met said man when he was just a boy in grammar school. No matter how hard he would try, Gregory struggled madly in school. He was unlike his four brothers… he wasn't good at sports, wasn't talented at writing, he couldn't even pass a B in school… he felt himself spiraling into depression… until he met _him._

 _He_ was like a dream, and sometimes Greg wondered if it was his wild imagination that had conjured him up. What Gregory lacked in brains is where his imagination prospered. _He_ was handsome, confident, musically talented, and _extraordinarily_ smart. Greg reasoned that _he_ must have known absolutely everything there ever was to know.

Greg spent two years admiring _him._ He thought that _he_ must be the happiest man alive; he had everything. The only thing that Little Greg lacked to notice was that _he_ didn't have any friends.

Until the day in 6th grade when the school prick known as Phillip Anderson made fun of _him_ and Greg punched him right in the nose. That was when _he_ made his first friend.

"I'm Greg," Lestrade had said, sticking his bloody fist out to _him_ to shake. "And nevermind that sorry bloke. Don't let people push you around like that."

 _He_ had stared at him in awe for a long moment, like no human being had ever spoken to him before. And after thirty long seconds of staring, he finally placed a delicate hand in Greg's, shaking it lightly.

"I'm Mycroft," _he_ had said. "Mycroft Holmes."

Greg placed the book back on the shelf, wiping his moist eyes. _The dust makes my eyes water,_ he assured himself as he walked back over to the window.

But even a man with as much pride as Lestrade knew that those were tears that wettened his eyes.

Lestrade would probably never see Mycroft again, and that saddened him immensely.

Mycroft was the first person in Greg's life to break a promise. They had promised each other that day in 6th grade that they'd be best mates for life.

But somehow thirty five years later, Lestrade was best friendless. 


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two—_

The blood splattered across the paper Mycroft had been writing on as his fist came down on top of the mosquito. He'd been killing them for hours, smashing them, slapping them, squishing them…. But nothing could make them stop. It was agony. He'd suffered severe acne for ages, and now the swelling, itching zits had finally cleared up, it looked like he was doomed to deal with swelling, itching mosquito bites in their place.

The letter was ruined now, he contemplated to himself as he tried to brush the smushed mosquito of the parchment. It didn't matter, the humidity of this little island would have smudged the ink at some point anyway.

Mycroft sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow. What he would give to be back in central London… he missed the sound of roaring cars rushing by his office building. He missed his office building, actually. It was impossible to get work done here without the smell of fresh-pressed leather seats or expensive ink. Mycroft missed his lavishly furnished house, his five-star maid service, his food cooked in his restraint-style kitchen. And what he missed most in the world was back in England too…

Mycroft pressed fists into his temples, berating himself. He couldn't think about him….. _He_ was the reason he'd moved out of England in the first place. He had spent five years running around the world until he'd finally found this island. He'd been running from everything; his problems, his feelings, and mostly from _him._

But that wasn't important. That had been five years ago. Lestrade had probably moved on by now. Mycroft picked one of his fingernails subconsciously…. Greg had probably forgotten about him altogether. It was unknown to him that at that very moment a certain Detective Inspector was back home in London, gazing out his rainy window having similar thoughts.

Mycroft's phone buzzed and he jumped when he realized who it was. Why would his formal employer be calling him after five years of unemployment with the 'company'? There was no reason, it wasn't like they needed him…. He'd only been in a _minor_ position in the British Government anyhow ;)

It would be dangerous to answer….. if he did, they might as him to come back, to return. And if he returned, there was a small chance that he'd see _him_ again, Lestrade. Mycroft had promised himself that he would never see Greg again for as long as he lived…..

But before he knew it, he was answering the phone.

The call was brief and to-the-point, and within the hour, Mycroft was on a plane to London, sitting in the window seat, staring at the clouds and wondering what in the world he was doing going back home.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three-_

The plane landed smoothly, without the usual roughness or jolting about that Mycroft usually felt, but his heart still was pounding by the time he walked into the airport. He could feel it buzzing in the air around him like electricity. There was something different, he could sense it, _feel_ it…. It was almost like the calm before the storm. He felt as though his whole life was about to change in just a few moments.

With a slight jump, Mycroft was woken from his thoughts as he saw his suitcase gliding gently into the luggage pickup.

He grabbed the handles, the ridiculous weight of his two bags making him feel a bit more grounded to the world around him. He began to walk towards the exit, shaking his head slightly. Taking a reassuring breath, Mycroft told himself that he was being ridiculous. Nothing was going to change. This strange feeling meant nothing…. Sure, he might be back in London but that didn't mean that he would even see Lestrade. And if they did, nothing would even happen. No, Mycroft and Lestrade would never talk again, and if they did they would surely never be friends again. And most of all, they would never become more than that.

The thoughts cemented into Mycroft's brain with finality as the automatic doors swooped open. The thoughts sunk into his soul with the same coldness as the bitterness of the cold London air.

Lestrade had been drinking his tea when it happened. He choked a little bit, a drop of the steamy liquid going down the wrong tube and throwing the detective inspector into a coughing fit.

He couldn't breathe for several moments, and it was a while before he could regain his composure and remember what had thrown him into such a fit in the first place.

It had been such a strange feeling…. Nothing had happened really, nothing specific. It was just… a _feeling_ he supposed. A feeling of change. It was like the calm before the storm…

Lestrade shook his head, calming down his startled nerves. He was being utterly ridiculous. But no matter how hard the man tried to convince himself that he was thinking illogically, he couldn't shake off the odd feeling that his life would never be the same in just a few moments.

The clock sounded, and Lestrade jumped. Was it really that time already?! Oh, how had this happened? He'd lost track of time somehow even though he'd sworn he'd woken up in time, and now he'd be late to work.

He grabbed his coat off of the chair, reached for his briefcase, and ran out of the door and into the brisk London air.

The main London road was a crazy and crowded street full of bustling people. The sidewalks were just as jam-packed as the road, and Lestrade was seriously questioning his decision to walk to work after already running nearly a half-an-hour late. He could have called a cab after all… he probably could have been to Scotland Yard by now… he was going to be so late… he wondered if Detective Inspectors could get fired for things like this….

He was suddenly knocked from his thoughts. And I mean _literally_ knocked from his thoughts.

The collision sent his briefcase flying, papers spilling in every direction. Lestrade himself ended up flat on his arse, clutching his head and cursing.

He nearly didn't even notice the man that had crashed into him. He probably wouldn't have noticed him at all (he was in such a rush to collect his things and get to work) if it hadn't been for the voice.

"Greg?" it said.

It was soft and gentle, barely audible over the loud din around him, but it made the whole world stop. Lestrade would know that voice anywhere.

His breath hitched in his throat. It couldn't be… it wouldn't be… he'd look up and it would be a stranger, someone he had never met in his life….. It couldn' . .

Heart throbbing in his throat, Lestrade looked up with anxious eyes.

And what he saw made the world stop.

It was him.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four-_

Lestrade choked on some spit and for the second time that morning was launched into a coughing fit.

Dear Lord—it couldn't possibly—Lestrade couldn't breathe.

"Sorry," came the soft voice again, "I didn't mean to startle you."

Lestrade was able to subdue the coughs. "No, no, not at all, you didn't startle me. I'm just, well I'm surprised, that's all. I mean, it's… wow! It's been ages."

Dull thoughts ached in Greg's head. The natural instinct was happiness. He was so pleased to see him. Joy rushed through his veins, urging him to lunge forward and embrace the man. But the pain held him back. The pain had taken longer to process, but it was more prominent. The joy had been brief; rushing through his veins like electricity. But the pain was the circuit shutting off, the darkness creeping into his bloodline, poisoning it like toxin. This was the man that had abandoned him.

He had spent many hours coming up with the words he'd say if this moment happened. The confrontations, the explosions, the apologies, the begging, the reunion. And now that it was here Lestrade could barely stutter out an audible sentence.

His eyes began to water. God, what a pansy he was. Was he crying? Why on earth was he crying? He thought he'd gotten over this man. He hoped that the coughing fit would be a suitable cover-up for the tears.

"Is it really you?" He asked the other man, his dark brown eyes roaming over his face. He had ginger hair, a large nose, the iconic smart-ass smirk, and eyes that glinted with intelligence. It was definitely Mycroft Holmes.

Something should have happened. There should have been a strong and gentle embrace. There should have been laughter and tears. There should have been words said at the very least. There probably should have even been a good hard punch in the face with the shamble Mycroft had left things in.

But all there was was two men wondering how on earth they had let the other one slip out of their grasp; two men feeling the biting resentment rise in their throats as they remembered how they hadn't spoken for _five years_ ; two men staring awkwardly at each other, not sure what to say, the warmth slowly rising to their flushed faces.

Lestrade was the first one to break the silence. He was always less socially awkward. He had always known what to do, what to say… "I thought you were away in India? I thought you'd had… better opportunities there?" He tried to hide the bitterness in his voice.

Mycroft swallowed. "Oh yes, well…. The business in India… didn't work out too well." He thought back to the mosquitos and sweltering heat he'd just escaped from. "I uhm… received a call this morning. Asking me to return to London."

"So you're back then? Staying here? Forever?"

Mycroft couldn't tell if there was dread or hope in Greg's voice.

"Yes, that's the plan."

Another awkward silence fell over the pair. Greg hurried to pick up the papers he'd almost forgotten, stuffing them into his briefcase. "I don't mean to be rude, but I really have to get back to work." He knew it was a cold move, but the panic was finally registering.

Mycroft had broken him, really. Five years ago, with no explanation, Mycroft had suddenly disappeared. No phone call, no note, no explanation. Lestrade had been left all alone, without the best friend that had promised to never leave his side. He'd called in a panic, nearly screaming at Mycroft when he answered. "Where in hell are you?"

Silence. And then.

"I'm in India."

The pain from that moment was finally processing. This man had caused him so much pain… he couldn't bare another moment facing this monster.

He gathered up his briefcase. He wanted to turn around, to say goodbye, to wish Mycroft luck. But he couldn't. It all hurt so terribly. He'd either end up crying or punching Mycroft in the face.

He began to hurry off down the street again.

"Greg!"

The voice stopped him. He should have kept going. He knew he should have kept walking. But he didn't. Because one thing Gregory Lestrade wasn't good at was listening to his gut.

He turned around.

Brown eyes met hazel.

Lestrade waited for him to speak. Maybe he'd finally offer an explanation of why he'd left. An explanation other than "I can't stay here" other than "there's better opportunities where I am now." Or maybe he'd say he was sorry.

But all that was said was, "I need to see you again."


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five-_

Why had he given Mycroft his cell number? The thought pounded through Greg's brain all day.

There were a thousand things to do at work that afternoon, but Greg didn't get a single one of them done. If someone walked passed his office to drop off a tip for the latest case, he'd nod and give some automatic reply like, "Alright, thank you," or "Good morning" or "you too" or "don't forget the cake".

Everyone knew that something was terribly wrong. No one had ever seen such a hardworking man like Lestrade ever behave like this. He was shut up in his office all day, staring blankly at a computer screen everyone knew hadn't even been turned on.

The worker in the office next to Greg's said that the man hadn't even blinked the entire time he'd been there.

Greg left at exactly five o'clock, something the detective inspector never did. Everyone knew that Lestrade was the kind of man that was usually up all night in his office, sometimes even taking small naps throughout the day so that he didn't even have to go home to sleep at night.

What on earth could have possibly happened to unnerve such a strong man?

Lestrade walked down the street slowly. He would have ordinarily called a cab, but he knew the crisp air would do him well. He sucked it into his lungs, savoring the way the cold air burned his nostrils. The pain gave him something to focus on, something to think about other than the fact he'd just given his cell number to Mycroft Holmes.

Why had he done it? He knew that all it would cause was more pain. This man had abandoned him after all. And now he'd decided to let him back into his life, a decision he knew could only cause him more pain.

What a bloody idiot he truly was.

Lestrade sighed heavily. He knew why he'd given Mycroft his cell number. It was the same reason his heart ached every time his phone buzzed and turned out to be a text from work and not what he was hoping for. He'd given Mycroft his number for that exact reason—hope. Even after five years, five whole years, Lestrade still hoped. He still hoped that he could get his best friend back.

Mycroft hadn't been able to do anything that day. He didn't have to go back to work yet, in fact they'd been able to give him an entire week off so that he could unpack and settle down. He'd sold his mansion before he'd left for India, a decision he regretted immensely as he walked over the creaking, rotting floorboards of his small apartment.

He should have started unpacking. He should have took a nap to recover from the long flight. He should have ate something. But Mycroft was unable to do anything at all.

He never thought he'd see Lestrade again. When he had envisioned it in his mind, it all played out smoothly. They'd hugged, reunited, and things had went back to just the way they had been before.

But today made Mycroft realize that things could never be the same.

He could see the pain in Greg's eyes. Pain he himself had inflicted. Pain that was not so easily remedied.

The reasons he had given for going to India had been silly excuses, of course they had. Of course there weren't better opportunities in India. There was only one true reason Mycroft had left so unexpectedly, and that was a reason he would take with him to the grave. He had sworn to himself that Lestrade would never find out the true reason he'd left.

He paced back and forth in his apartment, thinking….. The small piece of paper stuffed in his back pocket was burning a hole in his mind. He should just throw it away. Why had he gotten Lestrade's number in the first place? It's not like he was ever going to call him. That would be too selfish, he'd seen the way he'd hurt Lestrade.

He reached into his pocket, about to throw the number away when there was a knock on the door.

Mycroft jumped. It was almost ten pm, who would be knocking at this hour?!

Apprehensively, he crept towards the door. Another pounding knock. It sounded like they were trying to break the poor door down!

Mycroft looked out the peephole to see a short, round man standing on the other side. He wore striped pajama bottoms and a white tshirt covered in various stains. Mycroft thought that he could probably deduce the man's entire diet purely based on the numerous stains.

Mycroft opened the door.

The short man took his cigar out of his mouth, ashes spraying everywhere.

"Get out," said the landlord.

"What?"

"I said, get out."

"I heard you very clearly," said Mycroft calmly, "but what on earth do you mean? I just got here!"

"Well you can't stay!" Mycroft studied the man, trying to deduce him. He looked like a very shady character, and he could tell from just looking at the run-down complex that there were probably several illegal methods being used to keep the place running.

"Excuse me, but I've just paid this month's rent I don't—"

"Well you can have it back!" The landlord burst through the door, entering the apartment and grabbing Mycroft's bags. He came bustling back out, slamming the door behind them, and locking Mycroft out.

"Listen mister," said the man, shoving a pudgy finger in front of Mycroft's long nose. "I've just figer'd out who y'are, and I can't have any of 'em government types around here. Take yer rent," he pulled out Mycroft's freshly printed check out of his pocket "and find another place to sleep tonight.

Shoving the check into Mycroft's hands, the landlord bustled down the stairs, disappearing from sight.

Of all the rude things a person could do!

Mycroft took a huge gulp of air, fantasizing about all of the things he could have his goons do to this man….. that is, if he hadn't fired all of his goons five years ago.

Taking his bags down the stairs onto the lonely London street, Mycroft wondered where on earth he could stay. Mother lived way out in the countryside, too long of a drive to ever make it for the night, and Sherlock was on honeymoon with John in Egypt.

That left only one option.

He pulled the number out of his back pocket, dialing it with slightly shaking fingers.

It rang three times before an answer.

"Hello?"

"Gregory. It's uhm, it's me. I was wondering if uhm… well, if it would be possible to uhm…. Erm, can I stay the night?"


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six-_

Lestrade decided that he would never make another decision for as long as he lived.

This day had been a disaster.

First, he had agreed to give his cell number to the man who had caused him more pain than anyone else.

And right after that he'd agreed to let him stay at his house until he could find a place to settle down.

Lestrade paced nervously, wiping the dust off of the many bookshelves, straightening the knickknacks and bobbles, and making sure that everything looked perfect. Lestrade certainly wouldn't want Mycroft thinking that he'd led himself go.

There was a knock on the door. Oh god. It was probably him.

His heart was racing, blood and adrenaline soaring through his veins. He thought he might black out. Dammit, he needed to stop caring so much! None of this mattered! He was letting an old friend sleep on his couch! That was it! It wasn't a big deal!

His heart lurched again as there was another knock. He opened the door, and none other than Mycroft Holmes stood in front of him. He stood staring for a moment. He hadn't had time earlier today to realize how well Mycroft really looked. Of course he was a little tired from the long plane trip, but besides that nothing had changed at all. He was exactly as he had remembered him.

He stared for too long. "Are you going to let me in?" Mycroft asked with a small smile.

Lestrade jumped back, opening the door. "Oh of course! Please, come in."

Mycroft was impressed. Everything was exactly how he remembered it. Nothing had changed. Not even the man that lived in the house. Lestrade was exactly how he had remembered him; tall, strong, handsome, perfect.

Mycroft began placing his things by the couch.

"Oh, don't do that," said Lestrade. "Take them to the bedroom. I'll sleep on the couch tonight."

Mycroft looked up at Lestrade. He opened his mouth to reply, but Greg interrupted him.

"Really, I mean it. You had a long flight today. You could use some real rest. I'll take the couch."

There was silence. Why was he being so kind to him?

Lestrade mentally kicked himself. He shouldn't be showing this man such kindness. He didn't want to. He wanted to hurt Mycroft the way Mycroft had hurt him. But he never could. Lestrade's heart was too big and kind and warm to ever fulfill the mean thoughts that his brain might conjure up. And maybe…. maybe he still did care for Mycroft after all.

"Are you sure?"

Lestrade nodded. "Yes. I'm certain." A teasing smile crept on his face, "Don't make me take your bags there myself."

Mycroft laid awake all night. The apartment was tiny, and he could hear Lestrade gently snoring from the living room. It should be soothing, he supposed. After all, hadn't this been what he'd wanted? He was back in Lestrade's life after all.

He sighed. It was four a.m. and he still hadn't been able to fall asleep.

He got up slowly, letting the blood rush down to his feet before getting out of bed. Maybe a drink of water would do him good.

He crept to the open kitchen, doing everything with exact precision. He could see the back of the couch from the smooth granite countertops, so Mycrfoct took extreme care not to make a sound to wake the sleeping Lestrade. He hadn't felt this nervous since… well, ever. And since he practically _was_ the British Government that was saying a lot.

After successfully filling a cup with water without a peep, Mycroft stood as silently as a grave at the granite countertop, sipping the icy water and letting it flow smoothly down his throat.

Lestrade's apartment was very nice, and Mycroft had always secretly admired it. It was much homier than Mycroft's mansion had ever been. It was modern and by no means cheap or tacky, but still managed to retain a sense of home. The hardwood floors were dark and so shiny you could see your reflection in them. Artistic-looking bookshelves lined chic, pastel blue walls. The furniture was in shades of sleek grey that complicated the dark wood of the floors and bookshelves and almost mimicked the shades of blue that ran throughout the house. Little houseplants were here and there, and in the center of the living room was a long, thin, flat-screen television. Mycroft breathed everything in. The smells, the way things looked, and just the feel of the place felt like _home._

Home….. So many people took that concept for granted, a concept Mycroft was so terrified that he would never understand. Mycroft had never felt _home._ He'd never felt accepted, he'd never felt like he'd belonged, he never felt loved.

Except for when he was with Lestrade.

He hadn't felt at home for half a decade.

So lost in his thoughts, he failed to notice that the couch had creaked and that a certain sleeping someone had woken from his slumber.

It wasn't until footsteps on the hardwood floors made Mycroft jump that he noticed the tall man standing beside him.

Greg stopped at the end of the countertop Mycroft was standing at. He looked over Mycroft for a long time.

It was a deadly silence, the kind that could kill anything that dared to breathe. If you had the balls to think, to speak, to move, the silence would zap you right where you stood, paralyzing you for eternity.

Mycroft felt like he was being physically strangled. His throat began to close up, and he shifted nervously. He tried to gulp down the water so that he could go into his room (he didn't want to take it with him and spill on the sheets) but the water was too cold.

He couldn't breathe with those icy brown eyes (yes, he realized the metaphor would have been more efficient with blue eyes) shooting metaphorical daggers at him. So he looked somewhere else, somewhere where the piercing eyes didn't feel so prominent.

Lestrade was in a tight blue shirt and loose grey sweatpants. Mycroft gulped when he realized that the sleepshirt was much tighter than a normal shirt should be…. He could see Lestrade's firmly chiseled muscles, his fit arms were exposed entirely, and as his eyes roamed over Lestrade's chest he realized that it must be very cold in the house because Lestrade's—

"Did you hear me, Myc?"

The said man jumped.

"No, I'm sorry—wh, what?" Mycroft's cheeks flushed madly, eyes darting up from where he'd just been staring.  
"There's been something bothering me," said Lestrade, and he put his head down, avoiding eye contact with the man that stood before him. His hair showed, and Mycroft suppressed a smirk at the slight bed-head. Although, it didn't look particularly bad. Nothing ever looked bad on Lestrade…..

"I need to know, Myc." Lestrade looked back up, linking sad and curious eyes with Mycroft. Greg hadn't called him 'Myc' in years, and, for some reason, it made his heart flutter.

"Yes, Gregory?"

"I need to know why you left. The _real_ reason."


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Seven~_

If Mycroft had found it hard to breathe before, he didn't know the right words to explain what he was currently feeling.

He tried clearing his throat and adjusting his feet. His brain felt like it was falling over a cliff, tumbling thousands of feet. He wanted to hit the bottom already.

But there was no end to this torture, not until he gave Lestrade an answer.

"I told you before—"

He was cut off by Lestrade stepping closer to him. The taller man was now only a few feet away from him now.

"Cut the bullshit Myc."

It was probably the fact that it was 4am and Mycroft hadn't had any sleep after his long flight, but something in him snapped. "Excuse me?" Hard blue eyes challenged dark brown ones.

Greg stepped closer. "I want you to cut this fucking bullshit. Why'd you really leave?"

He couldn't do this. He couldn't. Something had alerted the panic alarm system in his brain and all of his emotions were in hyperdrive.

"I don't owe you anything," Mycroft said coolly. The iceman had returned.

Mycroft continued. "Why do I owe you an explanation of anything I do, _Lestrade?"_ He could see the pain flash across his face. He was speechless, stunned. Mycroft had never addressed him by his last name before.

He'd crossed a line. The color rose up Lestrade's cheeks.

But Mycroft wasn't done. Mycroft was the iceman. Mycroft was heartless.

"You're not my father, _Lestrade._ It's not your responsibility to be in my damn business all the time. I can do whatever the hell I please, and I in no way owe you an answer for anything that I do."

Lestrade had lost it. Mycroft could firmly see the heat rising up his face. His eyes flashed with a roar as loud as thunder.

"Well, I guess what they always said was right!"

"And what exactly is that, please elaborate." His voice was dripping with a malice that only fueled Greg's fire.

"That you're not even human! It's no wonder your brother has always been such a dick to you and that you hardly see your mother! Why would they ever love you WHEN YOU CLEARLY ARE INCAPABLE OF FEELING HUMAN EMOTIONS."

The screaming was loud enough to make the room seem like it was shaking. The words rang through Mycroft's head, and they were the only things he could hear as he fell into hurt silence.

They were standing so close to each other that Mycroft could see Lestrade's chest rising and falling. He could see the anger swimming in his eyes, and all the pain and hurt that lay hidden below that. He could only imagine the pain that was swimming in his own right now.

"You really think that, don't you" Mycroft's voice was small and weak. It was a pathetic sound, a sound Lestrade hadn't heard since they both were boys. "You really think that's why I left. Because I don't care."

Lestrade began to calm down a bit, looking his old friend in the eyes. A sad expression passed over his face. He'd crossed the line. He didn't mean that. He shouldn't have said that. He wanted to retract, to take back his words, to do anything to stop the sinking feeling he felt in his stomach as he watched the man before him breaking.

But all he could say was, "What else am I supposed to think Myc? If you won't tell me the real reason?"

Mycroft looked up. "Don't you get it? The real reason is the exact opposite of not caring."

There was silence again, a complete and utter silence. Unlike the earlier silences, this one did not force the two men apart. Instead, it brought them closer. This silence was moving, it was alive. Lestrade studied Mycroft's face, eyes digging into his soul, trying to retrieve an answer. But Lestrade was not the one that was good at deductions.

There was, however, something deep in Myc's eyes. Lestrade had never seen anything like it. It was glimmering and sparkling and full of life and hope. It was warm and wonderful. And the more Lestrade stared into Mycroft's eyes, the more prominent whatever that emotion in them was grew.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, to tell him the exact reason he'd left.

"Gregory, I left because—"

A loud ringing interrupted the gentlemen.

"Shit," Greg cussed under his breath. He stood staring at Mycroft awkwardly, wondering if he should answer the phone or let Myc continue.

Mycroft turned away, his face flushing with color. He couldn't believe he'd almost told him. "Go. Answer it. It's probably important at this hour."

With slight reluctance, Lestrade nodded, going towards the ringing.

He answered it, and a rushed conversation followed. "Okay….. Right. I see….. How many? … Alright… When do you need me? … I'll be there. Yeah. I know…. Bye."

He hung up, giving Mycroft an apologetic look. Their eyes were locked, for seemingly the millionth time that day.

They didn't say much. "It was work," Lestrade said, and Mycroft probably asked what for, and Lestrade probably gave a reason, and Mycroft probably told him to go. But nothing can be said with absolute certainty. Because all that the men paid attention to was the _silent_ things being said:

'I'm sorry,' said Lestrade.

'I'm sorry too,' said Myc.

And with that, Lestrade walked out the door.


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter Eight~_

The next morning Mycroft woke up to light pouring in through the windows and burning his eyes. Groaning and pulling the covers over his head like a grouchy teenager, he attempted to let sleep encompass him once again. But his head was still throbbing from the argument and the lack of sleep from the night before, preventing him from doing any such thing.

He threw the sheets off of him with a sigh, regretting it immediately when the cool air hit his bare arms and feet. He precariously hopped across the hard-wood floors towards the socks he'd thrown off last night. He wasn't sure if it had just been his imagination, but last night had been extremely warm. Noticing how cool the house was now he wondered if it had just been a dream.

After a quick visit to the loo and a shower, Mycroft walked into the kitchen/living room groggily. Was it really only a little after ten? He'd only slept for a few hours then… he hadn't been able to sleep for quite a while after Lestrade had left the flat. It was nearly 5 when he finally retreated back to bed. He wondered what ungodly hour Lestrade had finally returned.

Speaking of said man, Mycroft could hear his light snoring from the couch and smiled to himself.

He made himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter, sighing contently. He inhaled the warm liquid happily, letting it burn the back of his throat in a soothing manner.

After a few minutes for who knows what reason (perhaps fate) Mycroft noticed a pile of things sitting on a small table next to the front door. There was nothing particularly interesting about said things—a brief case, a jacket, a notebook—so it is often questioned why Mycroft noticed it. But he did. After observing the pile for a few minutes, Mycroft finally noticed a bright yellow sticky note. Rather like the pile of things, there was nothing particularly interesting about the sticky note, so it is unknown why Mycroft went towards it, picked it up gently, and read it. But luckily, he did.

"Meeting: 11:00, " it said in thick, bold letters that had been quickly scratched in with a sharpie. Just as Mycroft was about to put the note back on the pile of things he noticed something peculiar: today's date was scribbled on the top of the note, and right below that a sidescrpit that read "urgent, please attend"

Lestrade had a meeting today at eleven and it was already 10:30! His heart hammered in his throat, and for a second he sat in silent panic. What should he do? He really didn't want to wake Lestrade up, but at the same time he didn't want him to miss this urgent meeting….

The prospect at hand seemed so looming that Mycroft even considered going back to bed and pretending that both of them had slept past eleven so that it in no way could be Mycroft's fault.

He shook his head. He was such an unconfrontational little coward.

He walked towards the couch. Lestrade was sprawled out on his back, arm and leg spilling onto the floor, a blanket hanging onto the floor and just barely clinging onto his body. It looked severely uncomfortable and Mycroft felt a pang of guilt. He really needed to find a place to stay so that he could get out of Lestrade's hair and let him sleep in his own bed again.

Mycroft nudged Lestrade gently, trying to wake him up. He waited silently for a moment, but Lestrade didn't stir. He nudged him again, a little harder. Still nothing. Mycroft sighed. Time to bring out the big guns. He shoved Lestrade roughly, causing the man to jump up with surprise. The blanket that had been barely covering Lestrade fell to the floor, revealing the man in nothing but his boxer briefs.

Mycroft's face lit up like a Christmas tree.

They stood staring at each other with eyes as huge and round and frightened as a fully puffed up puffer fish.

The stuttering that ensued was as fast and disorderly as a furious typist trying desperately to meet the deadline.

Lestrade hurried off the couch, grabbing a shirt that had been thrown onto the floor. Pulling it over his head, he offered an explanation to Mycroft, who wouldn't meet his eyes and was instead staring with the utmost attention to the very uninteresting floor.

"It was really hot last night," he said quickly,

"Scorching," Mycroft nodded in agreement (it really had been sweltering last night)

Gregory ran a hand through his short grey hair. "And I uh—I hadn't expected—uhm—I had been meaning to put my clothes back on before you woke up, but…. Uhm—"

Mycroft cut off the awkward banter with a frightened reply of his own "I'm so sorry," he said in a slew, hands wringing around each other, "I just thought I'd wake you up for your meeting—I saw the note on the counter."

And with that, the awkwardness was subdued almost immediately as Lestrade realized his dire situation. " _Shit"_ he cussed, looking for a clock. "What time is it? Oh crikey, I need to go."

He ran around desperately, throwing on his suit and tie, grabbing his briefcase, and finally pouring himself a thermos full of coffee. He stopped abruptly at the front door. He turned around, looked at Mycroft for a second, and said, "Make yourself at home, I'll be back this evening. See ya Myc."

The door shut with a note of finality and Mycroft let out a breath he'd been holding, closing his eyes and running a hand over his sweating, beet-red face. He was never waking anyone up ever, ever again.

Although, honestly, he hadn't really minded, after all. Mycroft's face turned beat red more than once that afternoon as a shirtless Lestrade entered his thoughts again and again. No matter what he did, those firm muscles and chiseled chest would not get out of his mind…


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter Nine~_

The door was thrust open with such force that it caused poor Mycroft to jump out of the peaceful slumber he had fallen into just a few hours ago. For just a few sacred, precious hours, Mycroft had been able to temporarily forget about the emotional trauma that had been inflicted upon him with the whole "waking Lestrade up" ordeal. And now, with horror, the memories came flooding back.

Lestrade placed his briefcase on the table with a heavy, ragged sigh. He removed his jacket, and Mycroft watched with longing eyes, shivers rushing down his spine. He had a strange urge, a sudden, naughty urge that he couldn't get out of his mind. Oh, how he longed to see Lestrade in his boxer briefs again, but this time under quite different circumstances…

Lestrade, as if he could read Mycroft's thoughts, turned to face his friend. Mycroft's cheeks instantly began boiling under Greg's gaze and he prayed to the dear lord above that Lestrade didn't have any superpowers… like being able to read minds.. or the super vision that would allow Greg to see a bulge growing in Mycroft's own boxer briefs…..

"Myc?" Greg said, and the confused and slightly agitated look on his face led Mycroft to believe that he had been asked a question.

He cleared his throat, shifting on the couch awkwardly. "Uhm… sorry. What?"

He thought he could see a hint of a smile on Greg's lips. "I asked you what you wanted to eat for dinner."

Mycroft's face grew more flushed than it had been before. He knew what he wanted to eat…..

Shaking his head violently to clear his head to clear his dirty thoughts, he cleared his throat. He had also begun a sweat, and probably looked as though he had just ran a bloody marathon.

"Oh," he couldn't think of a response. What did people normally eat for dinner? Food, right? The thoughts weren't processing correctly. "Whatever you normally eat is fine," is all that would leave his dry mouth.

Lestrade pulled a half-eaten box of pizza out of the refrigerator. "Is microwaved pizza okay?" he asked.

Pizza? Ew. Mycroft's face must have revealed his slowly-rising disgust, for Lestrade's face quickly oozed over in color.

The smell of the pizza was quickly blocking Mycroft's breathing pipes. "Greg," he coughed. "How long has that pizza been in there?"

Greg paused, and then shrugged. "Not long," he said.

Mycroft waltzed over to Greg, pinching his nostrils. "Are you sure about that?" He delicately lifted the pizza box lid like he was touching an object that had crash-landed on earth from an alien planet and could be crawling with fatal diseases. Finally, the lid had been opened, revealing the nasty surprise inside….

Ten minutes later, Mycroft finally emerged from the bathroom, having just emptied every last parcel in his stomach into the toilet. A very embarrassed Lestrade stood outside the door.

"Is it gone?" asked Mycroft, looking around as if there had been an unwanted intruder.

"Yes," said Lestrade.

"You disposed of it properly? In the dumpster?"

Lestrade nodded.

"Did you wear gloves?"

Lestrade began to give an honest answer, but after seeing the horror in Mycroft's eyes he changed his response. "Yes."

"And washed your hands?"

Greg finally broke into a smirk. " _Yes,_ " he said, his amusement dripping out over his words. "And then I washed the entire house with antibacterial spray."

"it's not funny Greg!" Spat out a fuming Mycroft. "Did you see how moldy that thing was? It looked like a dust bunny had vomited all over it! Do you know how dangerous mold is Greg? Do you?"

The crazy in Mycroft's eyes was breaking Greg down. There was a bubble of joy in his chest he hadn't felt in years…. It had been so long since he been able to laugh at Mycroft's germophobia like this. He clutched his chest, doubling over in laughter.

God, this… felt nice. He hadn't laughed in… he paused as he thought about it. How long had it been anyway, since he had last laughed?

The laughter rippled over his broken body, making his heart both ache and heal. It had been too long. Far too long. Since he had laughed, since he had felt happy, since he hadn't felt alone. It was funny to think that Mycroft was the cause of both his immense pain and this reviving joy.

Although fury was still freshly printed across Mycroft's face, he began to crack, slowly breaking down into fits of his own laughter.

His heart too, ached with this painful and familiar sense of joy that he hadn't felt in so many years.

After they finally caught their breath, Mycroft realized how hungry he really was. He gazed at the refrigerator longingly, and Lestrade finally caught on.

Greg opened the fridge, suddenly closing it, face blushing.

Mycroft walked over, but Greg blocked the fridge.

"What are you doing?"

"Blocking you,"

Myc rolled his eyes. He sidestepped Greg, opening the fridge to Lestrade's horror. There was nothing in there…. Like, nothing.

Mycroft looked up in shock.

"Its not what you think!" said Lestrade raising his hands defensively.

"So you haven't become a drug addict, using your only source of income to douse your addiction?"

Greg was the one to roll his eyes this time. He continued. "No, I'm not a drug addict. And I'm not anorexic or anything."

"I know that, stupid, you wouldn't have such nice muscles if you were anorexic."

The stupid comment had come out of Mycroft's mouth before he could even think otherwise. His pupils dilated, and he was extremely grateful that Lestrade wasn't the most observant person.

However, Lestrade did (unfortunately) have ears. "What?" he said, but he didn't laugh as Mycroft had thought he would. He looked… startled? Scared? But that wasn't quite it. There was something else in his eyes. Something he wanted to keep secret maybe? Mycroft's deductive skills were cut short by him stuttering out an explanation.

"I only meant—I didn't mean, _nice,_ exactly, I just mean, _decent._ As in… well, you look like you keep in shape. Maybe go biking every day? The firmness of your muscles would suggest weights, but there aren't any in the house, but there was a biking outfit so—" he noticed Lestrade's expression. "I mean. I wasn't paying that much attention to your muscles. I—" he was about to continue, but Lestrade cut him off.

"I'm sorry, by the way." Greg said. He was avoiding Mycroft's eyes.

"What for?"

"Today, that you had to see me like that." He looked ashamed, and Mycroft didn't know why. Why was Lestrade ashamed of Mycroft seeing him naked? The only possible solution would be if Lestrade had _enjoyed_ Mycroft seeing him in his undies… but that was ludicrous.

"Don't be," said Mycroft much too fast. His eyes widened again, and Lestrade finally smirked.

A mischievous smile passed over his face, and he stepped closer to Mycroft, their faces so close that Mycroft could feel Lestrade's warm breath pass over his face. "I know you don't mind seeing these _nice muscles,"_ Lestrade mocked, his breath dripping down Mycroft's neck as he pinned him against the fridge.

The whole thing had been meant as a joke, just to tease Mycroft and get him riled up, but when Myc didn't throw back a witty response, Lestrade realized how close he was to Mycroft. His face had drifted close to Mycroft's ear, and he could smell a cool cologne drifting up from his neck. A blush crept up Lestrade's ears as he acutely noticed how warm Mycroft was, and how much he wanted to just grab the man before him and feel his warmth envelope him completely. Their chests rose & fell unevenly, almost touching at times. Mycroft's pulse was beating so rapidly and he prayed that Lestrade couldn't hear it beating.

Realizing that the joke had went a bit too far, both red-faced men flung themselves apart, avoiding eye contact and clearing their throats. Looking for anything to clear the uncomfortable silence, Lestrade finally continued the previous conversation. "I don't have anything in my fridge," he said, "Because honestly I'm too busy to go shopping. I'm not poor. I have plenty of money. I just don't have the time."

Mycroft took the opportunity to get out of the house that so many uncomfortable situations had happened in. "Well we have time now. Why not go?"

"Together?" Lestrade asked, incredulous. "You'd want to do errands?"

"Might as well make myself useful while I'm here, can't just sit around being pretty the whole time."

And as they grabbed their coats and headed out into the chilly London air, Mycroft could almost swear he could hear Lestrade gently say, "I wouldn't mind if you did."


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter Ten~_

The store was empty, but to the two men, it had never felt more alive. To anyone else the voices of the handful of workers echoing across the cart-scarred floor and barricading off of shelves cleaned of its boxes of cereal may have felt empty and barren. But to the two men, the store was alive with their laughter and, most of all, with the energy of the other man.

They stopped at the end of the aisle, Mycroft gasping suddenly and picking up a box of sweets, his eyes glistening.

"Do you remember these?" he asked the other man, turning and looking up at Lestrade with such an innocent expression on his face.

Nostalgia came rushing into Lestrade's chest, making him feel happy and satisfied and overwhelmed. That look on Mycroft's face, just now, made him look just like the boy he had known all those years ago. For five years Lestrade had been asking himself where that boy had gone. And now it looked like he had never left at all.

He took the box gently from Mycroft's hands, examining the packaging with a gentle smile tugged around his lips. "Of course I do," he said softly. "We spent an entire summer saving up coins in our piggy banks just so we could buy a shitload of these."

Mycroft laughed— _really laughed._ That had been such a rare occurrence the last five years, and yet now it seemed natural once again. Between giggles, he said, "How much did we end up buying?"

A familiar mischievous grin spread across Greg's lips. "oh it must have been… what… twenty packages?"

Doubling over, Mycroft guffawed. "Twenty packages? Greg, no that's ridiculous."

"Alright…. Fifteen from what I remember." More dubious laughter.

Mycroft's eyes were misty, but he didn't know if it was from laughter or memories. "Do you remember that we ate the entire thing in one night? We got sick all over your mum's rug and she nearly had our heads."

Lestrade's grin widened. "I'm surprised she didn't kick us out of the house."

Mycroft's eyes widened. "Oh, but she did! Don't you remember? We had to spend the rest of the sleepover in your backyard, and it was so cold that we ended up sharing a blanket…." Mycroft's words slowly faded off, his voice thick with a memory, his eyes deep in thought. He'd never forgotten that night. They'd been so close… he could see Greg's breath rising slowly beside him, feel his warmth enveloping him, and nearly hear his heart beating. That, in his mind, was the closest to heaven he'd ever get.

The last rays of the golden sunset wafted through the store windows, gildening everything in its golden beauty. It hit Mycroft's face softly, lighting up his already bright eyes and making them sparkle. Lestrade watched him fondly, wondering how long he could hold onto this feeling that had grown in his chest. He felt happy…. He had been so chokingly lonely these past five years. And now, finally after all that pain, he felt happy. It made his chest seize up and he suddenly felt very emotional. Clearing his throat, he grabbed five of the sweet packages, tossing them into the cart and rolling away.

Mycroft snapped out of his temporary trance, laughing and following the other man. "What are you doing? Those are horrid, they're pure sugar."

"And?" Lestrade asked, the mischievous grin playing on his face again.

Mycroft shook his head, still smiling, and the feeling in Lestrade's chest grew. The thing that he had been missing for _so long_ had finally seemed to return—a purpose. Lestrade felt this sudden, suffocating need to make Mycroft smile every day for the rest of their lives.

The rest of the shopping trip was spent in silence, but that didn't seem to matter to either of the men. They didn't need to say anything—they just needed to know that the other man was beside them, alive and well and breathing. That was all that they ever needed.

When they arrived at the end of the trip, both men stopped for a second, gently idling, not wanting to make their way back towards the checkouts. They felt so light and free inside, something that they hadn't felt since they were children, something they were so afraid would melt back into that usual heavy feeling once they left the store.

They began to pull their carts around (both of them had their own—Mycroft had decided to buy a few things himself) when a brilliant idea occurred to Lestrade. Grinning madly, he dashed in front of the other man, jumping onto his cart and riding on it as he launched noisily down the aisle.

"I'm going to beat you, Myc" he called cheekily, causing the other man to curse under his breath before shaking his head, hiding a smile. Of all the stupid things a person could do, this had to be the most immature, childish, and ridiculous thing Mycroft had ever seen—a middle-aged man riding through the store on the back of his cart—and there was no way in _hell_ that Mycroft would be caught dead taking any part in it.

Lestrade had made it nearly halfway through the store. "Myyyyccccccc," he called. "I'm winningggggg," Mycroft scowled back at him, and Lestrade laughed to himself. Myc was horrible at hiding his amusement. He knew that he wanted to join. He had to up the ante.

Lestrade launched himself again on his cart, managing to somehow turn himself around, sitting on the handle bar, reaching his arms up in the air as if on a rollercoaster.  
"Look mum!" he called, "No hands!"

"Greg!," Mycroft growled, "you idiot! Look out for the—"

But it was too late. Lestrade had already been launched into the fruit display in the middle of the aisle, oranges spilling across the floor like a liquid sunset.

Mycroft pinched his eyes shut, already feeling the humiliation creeping into his face, and the hint of a headache already throbbing in his temples. Oh god. They'd never be allowed in this store again.

After a few deep breaths, repeatedly telling himself that he was _not_ going to kill Lestrade, he trod over to him, lifting him up gently.

As much as he appeared to be livid, Lestrade could see real, genuine concern in Myc's eyes. "Are you okay, Greg?"

"I'm fine," Lestrade said, picking himself up. "But my dignity is bruised badly." He brushed his clothes off, and Mycroft shook his head.

"You're an idiot, Lestrade." He could feel laughter bubbling up his throat. "A down-right idiot."

"But I'm _your_ idiot, right?" It had been a joke, but again Lestrade's words seemed to cross some sort of invisible line. Both men began to blush, and Lestrade grinned to remind both of them that it had been a friendly joke.

But immediately, horror crossed Mycroft's face. "I didn't mean it like that Myc," Greg said hurriedly, trying to cover up his tracks. "I just—"

"Shhh," Mycroft shushed him, eyes filling with still more horror. "Greg? Where's your tooth?"

"What?" There was a strange sensation in Lestrade's mouth, and he felt around it with his tongue. There was a gaping hole where one of his teeth had been just a minute ago. "oh god….."

"you knocked your bloody tooth out, you wanker," Mycroft swore, but there was no more reprimanding to be done, for employees were already barreling towards them.

"We're in so much trouble," Lestrade said, and he sounded like a scared innocent little boy. Honestly, he was just relieved his missing tooth would clear up his muddle of words.

Mycroft began giggling, studying Lestrade's face, feeling this sense of real, true affection come flooding into his chest. This man was such an idiot. A real, total, complete idiom. He rode his cart straight into a fruit display, spilling it everywhere, and they were going to be in so much trouble.

An hour, several sincere apologies, and a whole lot of money later, Lestrade and Mycroft were finally out of the store.

They drove down the street, back towards the house. Darkness had settled across the city. It was strange to think that nights just like these had been so suffocatingly lonely for Lestrade. And now, as he drove towards home, he didn't feel the least bit lonely.

He looked at the seat beside him, a gentle smile playing on his face and he gazed affectionately at the man almost-but-not-quite dozing off beside him.

A warm feeling had settled deep in his chest. He wondered, for the second time today, how long he could make that feeling last. But it didn't matter. Not now. Tonight, he wasn't going to be lonely. Tonight his best friend would be sleeping in his bed, and him on the couch.

And as they dozed in separate rooms, neither of them felt closer, both of their thoughts wandering to a night several years ago that they had slept together under a blanket in Lestrade's backyard.


End file.
